


can you feel the static?

by kivrh



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, more breaks, petition to give sans a break
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivrh/pseuds/kivrh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you're dealing with some things right now, but that's okay; it's become routine after a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can you feel the static?

Every single time, you do nothing but sit and watch the world burn.

Not today. They’ve gone too far.

Almost everyone’s gone, now. Papyrus is dead.

The child now stands in front of you in the hallway, clutching a jagged dagger. There’s a locket on their neck. 

You hold fragments of a timeline you don’t remember close to your soul, and you’re stuck wishing for something that’s made you so lazy and hopeless in the first place.

A reset. 

(you just want to see your brother again)

Small, warm, soft, safe hands. Neat chocolate hair and a patient smile. None of it is represented in the human who steps forward now.

Small, cold, dangerous hands. Ruffled chocolate hair and an empty face.

Their shirt is dusty. 

They take another step.

* sorry, old lady. 

Her name was Toriel, you remember. You miss someone you’ve only exchanged puns and jokes with. 

* this is why i never make promises.

\--- 

* on days like these, kids like you…

* S h o u l d b e b u r n i n g i n h e l l.

This is the first fight. None of the fragments you have are about this. 

The kid dies in an instant.

Red pools out of their lifeless, mangled body lying twisted and scorched on the floor.

You miss your brother.

But everything you do would end up filling the kid with DETERMINATION.

(It was a running gag you had with “Frisk”)

(You wonder if “Frisk” is even there anymore)

  --- 

* hmm… that expression.

* that’s the expression of someone who’s died ten times in a row.

* hey, congrats!

* the big one-oh.

* let’s invite all your friends over for a big shindig.

* we can have pie, and hot dogs, and…

* hmmm… wait. 

* something’s not right.

* you don’t have any friends.

\--- 

This time, when the battle starts, the human is somewhat prepared. 

Bones swing into their face, and their HP becomes infected with a royal purple, and they quickly send their soul (with themselves) up and down to avoid getting hit too many times. You swipe your hand forward, allowing adrenaline to course through you. Gasterblasters fling into existence, shooting beams of pure magic at their vulnerable red soul. 

They’re hit once, and dodge the rest of the blasts.

Your voice thrums in your hollow skull. 

* like i was saying. 

* it’s a nice day out.

* why not kick back and relax?

You slam their face into the ground, and blood spurts out of their now broken nose. Bones shoot out of the ground and nearly stab them through their body. (Of course, it wouldn’t have actually done much. The human body was only a vessel for the human soul, while monster’s bodies kind of ARE their souls.) 

Their soul is blue, now. You keep a hold on them, pushing down gravity on their soul.

You send waves of bones from the side, mingling blue and white together.

It’s too predictable.

You’re too tired to care.

They’ve wasted their food. They die. It’s becoming an endless cycle.

\--- 

The fragments keep on piling up.

The fight’s repeated so many times that you can remember a lot of them, and the fragments were getting bigger and bigger and becoming whole pictures.

There’s twenty-nine fights in total.

You refrain from making a joke about the hot dog stand you had back in Hotland, and how you stacked 29 hot dogs on their head and refused to go past that (because you have a fragment of that, too).

 

You let your guard down. 

A knife slashes through your shirt, down to the bone, and slicing through that as well.

The kid also cuts open the billions of ketchup packets you stuff in your jacket.

The pillow you keep in your rib cage is ripped and stained red, you note.

You’re so, so tired.

Ignoring the stabbing (they have a knife isn’t that funny) sensation in your chest (get it, it’s because you keep stuff in it, hah…), you say the lines you’ve prepared for your death, stand up, and walk it off.

Your vision goes blurry.

You see red. It’s a soothing red. It’s the red of Papyrus’s scarf. 

You feel yourself crumble into finite dust.


End file.
